Yes, mother, but my horse is such an old poke I was nowhere in the race.

When I short haue shorne my sowce face & swigg’d my horny barrell, In an oaken Inne I pound my skin as a suite of guilt apparrell

Discourses vain, inconsistant, and full of repugnances and contradictions.

It was a crumbling heap, whose portal dark / With blooming ivy trails was overgrown; / Upon whose floor the spangling sands were strown, / And rarest sea-shells, which the eternal flood, / Slave to the mother of the months, had thrown / Within the walls of that gray tower, […]